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As I start to jog over, I see her expression before I hear the cry. And I can't see it from down the street, but I know there's a cut there. She only ever cries like that when she sees blood. I understand this is part of it. But that doesn't make it any easier.

Of course, I don't miss the life lessons in this. It is more than a wobble, a fall and a scratch. It is life's biggest metaphor: You fall down, you get back up. You learn to deal with the pain of your injuries, be they physical or emotional. And you learn that they will pass.

But that's a lot of home-cooked hooey when it's your kid and her blood and her tears. None of that makes the feeling in your gut any better, the one that reminds you there is nothing you can do to undo the scratch. The injury is hers now. And I have helped put it there.

I resist picking her up. She has to pick herself up.

She gets out from under the bike, sits on the grass and studies her knee. There is only a tiny scratch, but it is there, and she does not miss the opportunity to notice it. She puts her hand over it, squeezes her eyelids shut and sucks air between her teeth.

"That's all part of riding a bike," I say, keeping my voice steady.

I do not say there will be many more. On this bike and in this life. That these 12 pounds of steel rolling down the asphalt are a microcosm of however many years she has ahead. That she will go faster and farther than she has ever imagined. That there are dips she will not see in the road. That there will be as much fear as exhilaration.

I want her to be brave. I do not want her to be afraid to fall again. I do not want her to fear success for the pain of failure.

"It hurts, Daddy," she croaks.

I nod.

She reaches her hand up. I take it and give her a pull until she is on her feet. We look down at the bike. I wait for her to say something like, "I'm done for today, Daddy," and I wonder whether I should and whether it is right to insist she get back on.

"Can you help me start back up?" she says, finally.

This is part of the lesson, too: That the people who have your back can't always be there to prevent the injury, but we will be there to commiserate, to dust you off and get you back on your way.

Today, after her first fall from a bike, I might get her a Band-Aid. In 14 years, after her first broken heart, I might buy her a beer.

I help get her bike back onto the street. She swings her leg over, puts her feet on the pedals, gives the handlebars a tight grip. I hold only the back of her seat.

"Ready, Daddy."

She mashes down on the pedals, and she is off. I am holding the seat, pacing her at a jog.